T is for Tea
by Dush-kins
Summary: "He spent quite a while looking for someone on his level. Looks like it would be Syria again." In which Iran and Syria discuss love, jealousy, marriage, alliances, defeat, what it means to protect someone you care for from the worst life has to offer. REQUEST.


**A/N:** So here we go. Yet another addition to my project-thing. And look! Another request!

So basically, it's Iran and Syria bonding time. They talk over tea. Topics range from silly to disturbing, and everything in between.

**Disclaimer:** I won't ever own Hetalia. Stop bothering me.

**T is for Tea**

"You set Morocco's hijab on fire."

The words were coated in a mild disbelief, Iran's two-or-three-pitches-too-high voice laced with a malicious kind of amusement. A slow grin made its way onto his face as his eyes narrowing slightly. After taking a sip of his tea, he swirled it around in his cup, dazing into the substance that wasn't red, not quite orange, definitely not brown. He looked over to see Syria absentmindedly holding her own glass, staring into some random spot in the sky.

"Word around the Maghreb is you took out most of her hair," Iran continued, wanting to take her mind off whatever it was she was brooding about. "Serves her right, talking down to you the way she was." The Persian remained silent for a few moments, before pouting in a rather childish way. "I can't believe she called me a 'short little loser'! What a bitch!" He suppressed the urge to squirm about in that flamboyant way of his, remembering the hot substance in his hand.

Syria glanced at him briefly, before humming in response. She then fixated her eyes on the open air again, her eyes glazing over. She seemed so nonchalant and uncaring. Iran frowned. He hated it when she ignored him, just as he hated when _anyone_ ignored him. But what separated Syria from everyone else was that he couldn't bully or annoy her into acknowledging him. He had to use other tactics. "Why do you hate her so much, though?"

Syria sighed heavily, as if annoyed. Iran didn't let it get to him. "You already said it. She's a bitch."

"But how did you find out about her being so mean?"

She remained quiet for a few moments, lightly drumming her sharp nails against the cup in her hands. Shrugged lightly, and mumbled, almost to herself, "It's dumb. The whole story is dumb." Iran opened his mouth to counter, but she continued before he could convince her to do just that. "You remember when I married Egypt? The night she found out about our engagement, she tried to humiliate me in front of everyone. Calling me a whore, saying that I didn't deserve Egypt. Everyone was there—my boss, my cousins. My _brothers_, Iran." She took a swig of tea, and continued. "So I released my rage upon her. Particularly, on her face. And we haven't been on good terms since then."

"Well damn. Starting fights for no reason." Iran shook his head. "I can't stand broads like that."

She blinked slowly, as though bored. "To be honest, I don't blame her."

Iran frowned. "But you said—"

"No doubt about it, she was wrong in attacking me in the way that she did. But now that I've had a few decades to think about it, I've come to the conclusion that what she did was most likely reactionary. She thought that I was stealing what was hers, either not realizing or not caring that the merger was forced onto my lap. Hell, I did the same thing to Tunisia once."

It took a moment for Iran to remember the tiny Arab state, the youthful-looking Nation who looked far more innocent than he most likely was. What could he have possibly done to incite Syria's rage? "Wait, what happened there? You never told me about that."

Syria gazed down at her cup of tea, her aura shifting from indifference to remorse. It wasn't often that Syria seemed sorry for anything that she did. "It isn't something I'm proud of."

The Persian settled into his seat, crossing his right leg over so that his ankle sat on the knee of his left. "Let me be the judge of that."

"I'd rather not." She laughed shortly, though not out of merriment. "It would damage your view of me."

How could Syria think such a thing? Barring total betrayal, he couldn't think of anything Syria could do that would lower his opinion of her. She was, without a doubt, his favorite person (beside himself). "Can't be any worse than you torching Morocco's head."

"That's different. She deserved that."

"And I'm sure Tunisia deserved whatever you did to him."

"But that's just it." She took another sip of tea. "He didn't."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better… I don't quite care about whether or not he deserved it. I'm sure whatever you did, you had your reasons for."

Syria opened her mouth, as though to counter, but her mouth closed again with the soft wet clasp of her teeth before any words came out. She leaned forward, fixating her gaze on Iran's face, her sharp eyes digging into him. It made him feel out of place, just ever so slightly. It was rare for Syria to outright stare at him with those piercing (and eerily familiar) brown eyes of hers. But despite his uneasiness, he held her gaze, unblinking. Refusing to back down. Though he couldn't help but squeak in surprise when she suddenly grabbed his hands.

"_What do you think you're—"_

"Your hands are so soft," she murmured, almost absent-mindedly. "So small and soft." She ran her hands over his knuckles, bending his fingers as she went along. "Make a fist for me, won't you?"

"Why?"

"Just do it," she commanded, her tone laced with a hint of annoyance. "I'm going somewhere with this."

So he complied. There was, after all, a point to it; Syria always meant what she said. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards at the gesture, ever so slightly, and his heart dropped downwards. "See how small your fists are?"

"They're not small!" Iran pulled his hand away, quickly. Offended. "They're big!"

"No, your fists are pretty small. But you're still strong. Now look at mine." She clenched her fists in turn, stretching her arms out towards Iran so that he may see them. "Mine are bigger than yours, but a blow from me wouldn't hurt nearly as much yours would." Iran smirked; Syria was such a trip. It wasn't too often a Nation would admit a weakness so frankly. "It's so contradictory. You and I are strange in that way. Going back to Tunisia… he is just what one would expect. His fists are small, and his physical prowess is laughable. When I fought him over Libya, it was truly no contest."

Syria fought… she fought someone over a country that wasn't _him? _

She continued. "I'm sure you heard about it, a few years back. Tunisia was betrothed to Libya. To that, I said fine." She leaned back in her chair, started off into the distance as she delved deeper into the memory. "I managed to convince everyone, including myself, that I was fine with the entire arrangement. However, when it came time to hold the celebration over their engagement, before I could stop myself, I marched right up to Tunisia and punched him squarely in the face."

Iran may have laughed at the mental image of Syria doing such a thing, but his mind still reeled. Why over Libya?

"He tried to defend himself. Oh," she shook her head, laughing despite herself, "he tried so desperately to fight me off as I continued to hit him. I remember, I knocked him down to the floor without much effort, but still continued in beating him anyway. There was shouting, and there were hands on me, trying to pull me away from him." She nodded, brought her glass to her lips, and took a sip. "And Libya, he… he wears the face of an innocent. But truly, he can be just as cruel as the two of us. He cheered me on the entire time, telling me to get him, get him, get the 'little faggot' he was being forced to marry."

"Why him, though?"

Syria's attention was zapped from her memory and back towards Iran, not quite by the question itself, but by the tone of his voice. It was… different. Eerily subdued, for a country so outspoken. "Why Tunisia? Because he was to marry Libya."

"That much is obvious," he responded, his voice still stinging. "I meant, why over Libya? You have a thing for him or something?"

"I do," she answered bluntly, and Iran felt ready to fall over. "Out of all the people I've been betrothed to, my pending marriage to Libya was the only one I looked forward to at all." She sighed heavily. "I still mourn the loss of it. Unlike that bastard neighbor of his, Libya always treated me with the curtsy and respect I know I deserve. He assured me that so long as I never looked elsewhere, he never would, either. He could always bring a smile to my face, always defended me when others dared to bring my honor into question. And when we kissed, it felt as though…" Syria closed her eyes, searching for the right words to use. "It was as though he could bring me to another place and time."

Iran couldn't take it anymore. "Are you _trying_ to kill me?!"

Her eyes snapped open, and there sat Iran right across from her, face red, eyes wide in rage. "What do you mea—"

"What, you're just gonna sit there and start pouring out all these mushy feelings you have for some _Maghrebi_ who's only _just_ smart enough to stay alive? Someone so weak, they were overtaken by _Italy_ of all people? Why would you give your heart to someone who can barely keep his head up?"

"Power, who a country has been imperialized by—none of that matters so long as they do right by me. And that is in area in which Libya has been unwaveringly consistent." Syria glanced at Iran out of the corner of her eye. He still seemed to be seething with rage. Syria turned her head away from him, crossed her arms. One of the (relatively few) things she disliked about Iran was how narrow he could be

"As long as they 'do right by you'?" Iran asked, searing with disbelief. How could she have made it so far, yet still be so naïve? "You say that now. But you haven't been in a situation where everything is riding on what you're able to do, with the weight of everybody else's issues dragging you down."

"My will is wide enough to carry everyone I care for."

"I'm sure it is! But you deserve better than that. Above everything else, you should be looking for someone who has the power to look out for you. Someone who would kill for _you_, not the other way around!" The Persian shook his head, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. "You ought to be with someone who knows how crazy-shitty-terrible the world can be, cause they're the type to do everything in their power to make sure you never have to experience any of it."

She raised an eyebrow, a smirk etching it's way across her thin lips. "So in other words, I deserve the illustrious Islamic Republic of Iran?"

The Persian gave her a thumbs-up, flashing his best grin. "The one and only!"

Syria looked down at her hands, trying to hide the smile which so desperately wanted to spread itself across her face. Of course, she told herself. Of course. "Have you ever been married before, Iran?"

It amazed her, how one simple question could make an otherwise confident man visibly deflate. She almost regretted asking. "Why you wanna know?"

"Just answer the question. I'm going somewhere with it."

Iran looked over at his half-full cup of tea. He guessed it to be cold by now. He wished it were still warm, so he could perhaps find some comfort in it. To defrost the sudden coldness he felt settle inside. With anyone else, he would have changed the subject, denied them access into that period in his life. But this was Syria, and if she deserved everything with a cherry on top, then she certainly merited an answer to her question. "Once."

She hadn't been expecting that. She never knew Iran had been married. "To who? Tell me about it."

Iran crossed his arms, held his head high. He could do this. Breathe in… "To Mongolia, back when he was batshit-fucking-insane."

Mongolia? When had Mongolia… _oh_. Now Syria truly regretted asking the question. She wished she could take it back—and she would have, had Iran not been looking at her with such expectation in his eyes. He was steeling himself for whatever came next, she knew. If Iran was willing to talk about it, then she should be willing to pry. "I never knew you were married to Mongolia."

"Most folks don't."

"Didn't… didn't he marry China, though?" Syria could have sworn that she heard something like that. Part of her hoped that Iran was somehow mistaken about his own life story, that it was actually China who had the misfortune of being married to the Mongol Empire. Certainly, not her Iran.

"He did." Iran nodded, and Syria felt a small spike of hope, before Iran added, "He married China, and Russia, and all my siblings. He married the whole lot of us." Iran twisted his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. "I didn't wanna marry him. I heard horror stories about all the shit he did _years_ before he came knocking at my door. Afghan told me about how he ruined the lives of everybody he took over, and I thought, fuck that. Not me. When he came around, I told him to go fuck himself. So then he killed off two-thirds of my humans, fucked me in front of everybody, and burnt my house down. Then, to top it off," Iran clapped once and raised his arms into the air, as if this were the grand finale, "he made me marry him!"

Syria leaned forward, resting her head in her hands. For once, she didn't know what to say. "… you didn't have to tell me all that."

Iran grinned, trying to ignore the stale nausea that has situated itself in the pit of his stomach. He just upset Syria—maybe if she saw him as being unconcerned with the incident, she could move past it herself. "It's just something that happened a long time ago. It's not a big deal anymore, I just hate talking about it since I hate coming off as weak."

"How can an experience like that make you seem weak? My faith in you just increased exponentially." She paused for a moment, her eyes flickering to Iran before darting to the side again. "If anyone ever tries to do that to you again, I'll kill them." She meant it, too. How could she sleep, knowing that Iran was out there being violated by some godless brute?

Iran waved his hand about rapidly, as though trying to rid the air of her sentiment. "No you won't. I know you'll _try_ to, and hey, 'A for Effort', but you said it yourself. I'm stronger than you. If some crazy asshole comes along and fucks up my world again, you're not gonna be able to fight him off."

"You underestimate me, darling." Her eyes narrowed, the sharpness of her gaze shining brighter than ever, concentrated. "I'd become positively feral if your safety came into question."

_Darling!_ Iran all but swooned at the word, positively gushing. He made a mental note to tell Syria about the atrocities committed against him more often. "If you say so! See, this goes back to what we were talking about earlier—I know how fucked up the world is. So I know exactly how to help you not fall victim to it." Iran looked her up and down. "Especially considering you're a _girl _and all."

Now it was Syria's turn to wave his assumptions away. "Oh, come off it!"

Iran held up his hands defensively. "Relax! I'm not saying you're weak because you're a chick, I'm just saying it makes you an easy target! You gotta admit that much is true."

"I can handle myself. I've faired well thus far, without your assistance."

"Yeah, and I used to think the same way before all that shit went down. Everybody needs help sometimes."

"If everyone needs help, then there's nothing wrong with my helping Libya, or my brothers, or even you." Syria crossed her arms, as though she considered herself having won the debate. And Iran had a few choice words in mind to counter her argument… but was it really such a bad thing, that her will was so wide it could carry everyone she cared about?

"Would you really kill over me?" he asked, already knowing the answer but just wanting to make sure.

She pressed her fist to her chest, as though taking a pledge. "In a heartbeat."

"Just remember, I'd do the same for you. Let someone else try and fuck you over like Egypt did. Let them try that shit with me in your corner, man, I'll fuck 'em up."

Syria grinned widely. Iran was so sweet. "Alliances are a two way street. Let's kill for each other, yes? Agreed?" she held her hand out to him.

The Persian glanced down at her outstretched hand, before shaking his head. No, no, he had a better idea. "Get up."

She blinked slowly, surprised by the sudden command. She wasn't used to it—at least, not with his demands directed at her. "Excuse me?"

He got up himself, and walked over to the only Arab he considered good enough for him. "Just get up. I'm going somewhere with this," he winked as he repeat her own line back to her, holding out his own small and smooth hands so that she might take hold of them, to help her stand up. She took his hands and he pulled her to a standing position. He felt a twinge of annoyance—barely there, but still there—over Syria's height; she was a head taller than him, at least. Iran laughed, inwardly—like that could stop him! He took hold of Syria's shoulders, brought her down; the lower she came the wider her eyes opened. Despite this, she made no moves to stop him, so Iran didn't continued to lower her down to his level before elevating himself on the tips of his toes, just high enough.

He kissed her. Syria's mind went into overdrive; she could barely form any semblance of coherent thought as she felt Iran's lips mesh over hers. Soft, soft, not like anyone else's she's ever kissed (but still _eerily_ familiar). Something old came back, from another place and time, and she was flying. She remembered… something happened… she was flying. Emboldened, she opened her mouth slightly and pressed her tongue against the opening of his lips.

And that got to Iran. _Well._ He hadn't thought Syria would be open to such a thing so soon. He was glad that she wasn't that type of girl. He took the invitation and ran with it, shooting his tongue into her mouth, darting it about rapidly. She seemed stunned for a brief moment, before reciprocating the kiss with the same feverish ferocity, and Iran was so glad she was _this_ type of girl. He always loved the rebellious types. He spent quite a while looking for someone on his level. Looks like it would be Syria _again._

She pulled away from him, her breath just ever-so-labored, and rested her forehead on his. "You taste like tea."

Iran laughed. "Good, good! We ought to do this type of things more often."

* * *

**A/N:** Yayyyy for historical notes!

There aren't too many, as this wasn't a… history-driven fic per say. But there are a few references to historical instances, which shall be covered.

The United Arab Republic (1958-1961) was the short-lived union between Syria and Egypt. It was one of the many failed attempts at bringing the Arab world together throughout the mid 20th entry, in accordance to Pan-Arabism. It's actually the Pan-Arab union which lasted the longest, which… really says something.

The UAR fell apart when Syria seceded from the union, on the grounds that all the power was consolidated in Egypt, and that Syria was being exploited/taken advantage of.

The Arab Islamic Republic—a merger of Libya and Tunisia—was proposed in 1974. During the planning stages for the union, Algeria and Morocco were also thought to join the union, but the federation ultimately never came to be.

Which is also the case for the Federation of Arab Republics, a proposed union which initially included Libya, Egypt, and Sudan in 1970. Syria later joined the proposed union after Sudan left in 1971. Libya later left the (STILL IN THE PLANNING STAGES) union in 1976, leaving Syria and Egypt alone again. Obviously, this shit did not fly; Syria left in '77, and Sudan came back to form a union with Egypt. Which ultimately never came to pass.

(Did you feel like that entire paragraph was pointless? You're not the only one.)

As for the Mongol invasion of Iran: at this point, one of Iran's many empires (under the rule of the Khwarazmian dynasty) was invaded by the Mongol Empire. War and several genocidal sieges ensued. Iran (and several of the modern day Central Asian states under Iranian control) were absorbed into the Mongol Empire… but not before several major cities were leveled to the ground, as well as two-thirds of the total population being wiped out (though some estimates will put it as high as 90%).

Now, as for the plot of the story itself? …plot? What is this plot of which you speak? I consider this to be an extended drabble of sorts. The original request was: Iran and Syria sit around, drinking tea and talking about stuff. I didn't start out with this planning on making it as heavy as it got in some parts, but… Syria and Iran, they're intense countries, you know?

So this is the condensed version: Morocco and Syria get into a fight (for more details on what happened there, kindly refer to Syria's chapter in the League of Evil), for which Syria later torches Morocco's hijab. And this isn't the first time they've fought, either. But, hey: Syria is immensely understanding. She knows what it's like to have someone you love be engaged to someone else. Hell, she once kicked Tunisia's ass just for being engaged to Libya!

And cuuuuuuue Iran's own jealousy. I bet before Syria calmed him down, he was making plans to go kick Libya's ass himself. You see how these things come full circle?

I always liked to picture Iran, Syria and Libya as being a trio of sorts (a dear friend of mine dubbed them the "Anti-West Trio" ^^). So I supposed this conversation will have taken place before their friendship has been truly solidified.

But Iran's biggest beef with Syria's feelings for Libya is that… Libya's a bit of a floozy. He's a big kid trapped in a man's body, and Iran knows he's won't be able to have Syria's back should any serious shit ever go down. Of course, Iran considers _himself_ up to the task.

So Syria asks him if he's ever been married. She probably wasn't expecting him to say he was married to Mongolia of all people, but hey. The Mongol's were known for being very aggressive in taking the spoils of war, and women were very much a part of that category at the time. So I suppose that mindset would have spilled over into the way Mongolia treated the countries he took over: he would make them marry him.

And while Iran can tell what happened to him without a hitch (at least, on the outside), the story understandably disturbs Syria. So they make a vow to protect each other, and seal it with their first kiss. (Their first _modern_ kiss, anyway).

So that's all. Review?


End file.
